


Supporting Evidence

by PepperF



Series: Prove Me Wrong [2]
Category: Community (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-06-08 20:35:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6872446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PepperF/pseuds/PepperF
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Look, I'm just going to come out and say this: Annie and I are together now."</p><p>"Well, <i>duh</i>."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Supporting Evidence

**Author's Note:**

> Interim sequel to 'Prove Me Wrong'. I'm writing a longer one, but in the meanwhile...
> 
> Thanks to Bethany for editing and enthusiasm and the American Dream line! :D
> 
> Also, apologies to anyone who ends up locked in a TV Tropes spiral.

"Hey, Britta."

"Hey, roommate-stealer," she replies, wiping down the bar with a rag that's seen better days. That probably explains why it's always so sticky.

Jeff saunters up to the bar, remembers not to put down his elbows, and scans the bottles behind her. "Gimme... a Harvey Wallbanger," he says.

"Fuck off," says Britta. She grabs the scotch that he actually wants and pours him a generous shot. "Where's Annie? Is she too worn out from hours of shagging to come home, or have you got her locked up in your apartment until she agrees to your demands?"

Jeff rolls his eyes as he drops onto a barstool. "She's in the car, actually. I asked if she'd mind if I came in and talked to you first."

"Okay, but if you're gonna ask me to join your little harem, I'm not interested."

"Will you just shut up for a minute?" He sighs. "Look, I'm just going to come out and say this: Annie and I are together now."

"Well, _duh_. Poor kid." Britta holds up her hands. "For god's sake, no sordid details, I couldn't stand—"

"I wasn't going to give you the sordid details," says Jeff, annoyed. "Anyway, there aren't any, yet. We haven't... I wanted to do it right. You know, romance her, all that crap." He grimaces and looks at the glass, feeling like an idiot.

"Hah! Traitor. So much for nutting up and dying alone," says Britta. "Annie's got you jumping through hoops already. I should've known she could do it—she always did have your number."

"No, it's not like that. I... Look, you have to promise you won't psychoanalyze me about this."

"No way, Pierre Hermé." At his look, she explains impatiently, "He's a bigwig in the world of macarons, Shirley is always going on about him. And as your friend, formerly with benefits, I reserve the right to psychoanalyze you all I want."

Jeff waves a hand. "Fine. I reserve the right to mock you outright and dismiss every bit of advice you give me," he says.

"Fair enough. Shoot." Jeff opens his mouth. "Ooh, wait, wait!" She quickly puts on her glasses and grabs a notepad. "Okay, go. Is it a problem with your penis?"

" _No_. God, will you just shut up and let me talk? Some therapist you are,” he grumbles. “Okay. It's not a big deal, but I kind of, maybe, had a tiny panic attack at DIA earlier."

"Oh shit!" Britta drops the persona instantly, and puts her hand on his arm, eyes wide with genuine concern. "Are you okay?"

And that, Jeff reflects, is why he loves her. He smiles wryly. "Not exactly," he admits. "But I survived. Mostly thanks to Annie."

Britta smiles fondly. "Yeah, she's pretty great in a crisis."

"She is. I'm amazed she never went into medicine, she'd make an outstanding paramedic. Anyway, we had a talk, and resolved a few things, and that's what we've been doing. Not having wild monkey sex." Oh how the mighty have fallen. "So there you go."

"There you _go_? Holy shit, dude, you can't leave it there! I want details!" Britta leans forward eagerly. "What did you panic about? Have you ever experienced one before? Are you going to talk to someone—a professional someone, not your girlfriend or your ex?"

Jeff ticks them off on his fingers. "I don't want to talk about it, no, and yes. Look, I'm not here about that. I just wanted to let you know in person about me and Annie. I don't want things to be weird for you."

"Ugh, it's FINE, date Annie, I don't care," says Britta impatiently, searching through the crap behind the bar for a pen. "And then get married and have half a dozen babies or puppies or whatever, live the patriarchal, heteronormative American Dream, I'm happy for you both. But tell me more about the panic attack. What did it feel like? I need to know for professional reasons."

"You're a sick, twisted individual," he tells her. He downs the scotch in one go, and stands. "Annie's waiting in the car, so I'll go give her the all clear." He leans across the bar and kisses her quickly on the forehead. "Thank you."

"Ugh, and you have the nerve to call _me_ sick and twisted," she grumbles. "Troy was right; you just wanna lick all the donuts."

"You're not a donut," he says, enough sincerity in his voice that she thinks a compliment is coming. "You're a baggle."

\---

For Abed, he trawls through the TV Tropes website, and emerges several hours later with the right trope, more in-depth knowledge of hentai than he'd ever wanted, and the nagging feeling that his life is a walking set of clichés. He texts Abed a link to an article entitled 'They Do', trusting that Abed will figure it out.

Abed replies with just one word: "FINALLY."

\---

They decide, for whatever reason, that tackling Shirley is best done together – something about not letting her divide and conquer. So they set up a Skype call, and Annie holds his hand tightly beneath the view of the camera.

Shirley gives them a thoroughly unimpressed look. "Uh-huh," she says. "Is that it?"

They both flounder for a second. "Did the call cut out?" asks Jeff. "Did you hear what we just said?"

"Yeah, yeah, I heard you, you're together." Shirley rolls her eyes. "Honestly, what do you expect me to say? I saw it coming _years_ ago, Jeffrey. Didn't I mention the googly eyes?"

"But don't you want to tell me I'm too young and innocent to be with a bad man like Jeff?" asks Annie.

"Hey," objects Jeff. "Maybe I'm too sensitive to be steamrollered by you!"

"Oh, stop it, both of you," says Shirley. "I might have had concerns when Annie was an eighteen-year-old who couldn't say the p-word – but I remember Hector the Well-Endowed, and I reckon you can take care of yourself these days. That was after Vaughn, wasn't it? I always wondered..."

"Shirley!" yelps Jeff.

"Aww, _are_ you too sensitive, Jeff?" mocks Shirley. "Annie, you can tell me all about it later."

"I will not," snaps Annie, giving Jeff a look and a reassuring pat. Then she gives Shirley a completely unsubtle wink and mouths 'later'. Oh god, his love life is never going to be private again, is it?

"Anyway, Annie's a grown woman, and she doesn't need me to police her decisions. And she's always had your number."

"Why does everyone keep _saying_ that?" he complains.

"Because it's true," says Annie, sweetly patronizing.

Yeah, he's screwed.

\---

Up until last month, telling Troy would have been a complicated arrangement involving carefully-timed calls and finicky satellite phones and occasionally relaying information via LeVar Burton (he's still not quite over that – it's _LeVar. Fucking. Burton_ ). Now, he knocks on the door of apartment 303, and Troy answers, a mug of coffee in one hand.

"Hey Jeff."

"Troy." Jeff is warmed again by the knowledge that _Troy is back where he belongs_. "Is Annie around?"

Troy wanders away from the door. "Annie!" he yells. "Your boyfriend's here!"

"Uh..."

The door to Annie's room bangs open. "What? Jeff! You told him already? I thought we agreed we'd do it together!"

"I didn't say anything!" protests Jeff, staring at Troy.

Troy looks from one to the other. He doesn't seem confused, though – puzzled, maybe, but in a laid-back kind of way.

They've all noticed the difference in Troy since he returned. He's changed in ways that Jeff can't quite pinpoint – nothing like the night they took him to the Ballroom for his twenty-first birthday, and everyone else got drunk. Jeff had been slightly envious of that new worldly-wise polish – the exotic place names and exciting events dropped casually into conversation – but now he has Annie, and he wouldn't exchange his life for anyone else's. Ugh, so disgustingly sappy.

"You _are_ dating, right?" asks Troy.

"Well, yeah," admits Jeff. "But only since yesterday."

" _Jeff_ ," Annie chides.

"What? He already knows, Annie."

"Yeah, but... I don't know, I guess I wanted it to be a surprise to _someone_ ," she says, sounding peeved.

Troy turns away and heads for the couch. "Huh. I assumed you got together years ago," he says. "What took you so long?"

Jeff shares a look with Annie. Her shoulders drop resignedly, and she shrugs.

"I'm beginning to wonder that myself," sighs Jeff. "Got any more of that coffee?"

\---

Together, they take some flowers to lay on Pierce's grave. Attached to them is a strip of photos – Annie insisted that they stop at one of those stupid booths – with a note on the back in Jeff's loose scrawl:

_Pierce,_  
_Surprise?!_  
_Jeff._  
_p.s. There is no way in hell we're naming our firstborn after you, so don't get any ideas._

(Four years later, they bring a similar tribute. There are three people in these photos, and on the back, another note:

 _Chloe Anastasia Winger, b. 7/31/19.  
Shut up, Pierce._ )


End file.
